I'm afraid it's another serious pie post. I'll let you skip it if you'd prefer. This just seems to be the best way (and vlogging, go figure) for me to express what I'm trying to process.
"Whoever said time heals all wounds wasn't a physician and if I ever met him, he'd probably need one."
-Joel Craig Nelson
Denial is a funny thing.
And I love how some people seem to think you can control if you're in it or not.
Intellectually, I know my brother has passed on. I get that, I really do. There was an open casket, I spent 20 minutes staring at the body and trying to reconcile my brain with reality and yet...
I don't believe it. Every now and then I think part of me accepts it and I have this brief but nonetheless completely undignified moment of weeping (not crying, but full on wailing) and then it's like something in my brain clicks and it isn't real again.
I read the first volume of Saga by Brian K. Vaughan and Fiona Staples--he'd recommended it a few weeks ago--and when I finished, I picked up my phone to text him what I thought.
Mid-text I stopped and thought,
And I felt crazy for not remembering, because who forgets that?
I know it's normal.
I know it's denial.
I know I still hate it.
And I know I couldn't be angrier at him for being gone. And that I couldn't feel more guilty for feeling angry at someone who isn't alive anymore.
It seems disrespectful.
I get that it's okay, I get this is typical trauma...
I guess I'm just a high-functioning trauma victim...
That's not the right word, "victim". I hate that word.
I'm putting myself back together. I'm writing and that's helping--I'm realizing what's really important to me and trying to close out the things that aren't... It's an interesting process.
I'm not doing okay... but I'm doing something, and I think that must count at least a little.